Well, a confession: I haven't read a book in over a year. This is a remarkable statement coming from me. I am (was?) a devourer of fiction. My home contains hundreds of books. The library and used book stores have been haunts of mine all my life.See, one of the side effects of my current struggle with anxiety/depression has been a severe ding in my ability to concentrate. The written word, particularly in stories, dance about the page and make little sense. My brain is just too busy. If I do manage to concentrate long enough to pick up the thread, I get too emotionally involved in the characters and have unreasonable responses if something bad happens. So I put reading aside. Didn't even pick up a newspaper for months.
I've have been reading a lot of poetry. Visual imagery created by words I can experience without problem. It's like watching dance or knitting with a beautiful yarn. It happens to you. It doesn't require over thinking. Rhythm, music, colour... Last week, I tried reading a favourite novel of mine, reasoning that a book I've read and loved before might be the way to get back into fiction. No success. This makes me sad.